


be the power to compel me, hold me closer than anyone before

by elderscrolls



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon!Jon, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, hunter!martin. for lack of a better term, slowburn, the institute focuses on hunting supernatural entities as well as recording the encounters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-15 21:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21259850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderscrolls/pseuds/elderscrolls
Summary: Martin is sent to hunt an entity who uses its demonic wiles to coax dark, elaborate secrets from unwilling victims.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally caught up on tma... how're we feeling about that season finale huh everyone
> 
> i'm super excited to post this! i'm not sure how long the whole fic will be, but i've already got chapter 2 written and a few chapters after it are outlined and ready to be written soon :] this is basically an au where everything is slightly to the left - most of the who's where and all the what the fuck is going on will be answered in future chapters. enjoy!

Martin didn't know how he had ended up like this. He had thought he was signing up for a normal office job, up until the moment the man who had hired him, a rather unsettling man named Elias Bouchard who always smelled faintly of weed, had asked if he had his own gun or would need one issued to him. As it turned out, “research assistant” translated to “go kill things for me. And also research sometimes”.

He hadn't been doing… the absolute best at his new job. He was adapting to it, more than he had thought he would, but there was definitely a learning curve when you jumped from filing clerk to hunter of varying malicious entities. His target tonight was a demon Elias said had been a thorn in his side for quite some time. And of course, demons were the hardest to kill; it didn’t take more than a gun to fell them, but they often possessed certain abilities. Some could disappear, make _ you _disappear. Others could scorch your flesh with even a passing touch. He had even heard of one that sent people through odd doors, leaving them lost for weeks upon weeks.

He shuddered at the thought. At least that wasn’t the one he was dealing with tonight; tonight, his quarry was one who used its demonic wiles to coax dark, elaborate secrets from its unwilling victims. He didn’t know much beyond that, his resources on it having been rather sparse. Martin had noticed, though, that it didn’t ever seem to kill its victims. Still, he couldn’t just let it go around making people relive their traumas.

The streets were dark, lit only by the occasional flickering streetlight or the odd light still on in an apartment building. No cars hummed by at this point, Martin’s wanderings having led him to quieter side streets after the vague recollection that it preferred to attack its victims without witnesses. At least, that was the excuse he gave - in reality, he had gotten lost an hour or two ago, no longer even bothering to look at the signs. The air nipped at his skin with a vengeance, and he let out a frustrated groan as he buttoned his jacket higher. At this point, he figured, he’d get frostbite before he found anything.

He had just started to pull his phone out, intending to use his GPS to navigate back to his car, when the loud, echoing slap of shoes against the pavement snapped his gaze upwards. Just in time for him to be sent sprawling to the ground, his phone flying from his hand and clattering somewhere in the distance. He groaned, pushing himself to his feet and fixing his glasses - then reached down to help up the woman who had crashed into him. She was older than him, perhaps mid-thirties to early forties, and her face was streaked with tears.

She looked _ terrified._

Martin held her arm gently, his tone soft. “Ma’am? Are you alright?"

She shook her head wordlessly, not fighting his grip but seemingly fighting for air, her chest heaving with sobs. She finally choked out, “this man- he, he followed me, and he cornered me and asked me all these _ questions _ \- these horrid, _ horrid _ questions about what I saw last year, and he-” she broke off, her eyes fixed on something behind Martin.

Martin whirled around, his hand already flying to his gun - behind him, he heard the pattering footsteps that he hoped were the woman fleeing. He leveled his gun at the approaching figure, though his hands shook so fiercely it was hard to keep the weapon locked on his target.

The target in question appeared to be a man; short, curly dark hair streaked with white framed a _ tired _ face, glasses broken and askew, bags under his eyes that suggested he hadn’t had a good night’s rest in years.

His eyes- they reflected light like a cat’s, sure, Martin had known that was coming; but was it just a trick of the light, or did the man seem to have too many of them? They gave him a spider-like appearance that chilled Martin to the bone, making him want to drag his own eyes away before they were pried out of his skull and devoured.

Martin was so averse to gazing at the man - demon - that he almost missed the hands raised in the air in a sign of surrender. “Don’t,” he croaked, his voice hoarse. “I wasn’t going to hurt her, I swear, I just needed-”

“I-I’m not listening to you!” Martin shook his head to clear it, try to shake away the ringing in his ears, the crawling words attempting to make themselves at home. “You’re just lying, you’ll say anything to-”

“I am _ not _ lying, Martin Blackwood,” the demon snapped. “I’m telling the truth. I just needed answers. I assume you’ve done your research. You know I haven’t killed anyone, not even bruised.”

Martin… realized with a twinge of doubt that he had a point. He lowered the gun slightly, but kept his finger planted firmly - at least, as firmly as it would allow with its godforsaken trembling - around the trigger. “Answers? Answers to _what_, exactly?”

“_Anything_. I’m so hungry, Martin, I’m so _ hungry _ .” His tone was desperate, pleading. “If- you, you have answers, you must. Your answers will be intricate, from the depths, _ fulfilling _ -” he took a step forward, and Martin wanted so badly to tell, to give, to _ feed_, his ears ringing so badly it felt as if there was nothing else in the world, but the sound was _ nothing _compared to the ringing in his ears after he pulled the trigger. He let out a hiss of pain as the recoil jerked his shoulder back, but the sound was drowned out by the howl from the demon as he clutched his bleeding leg.

Martin’s breath came in gasps as he raised the gun, aiming at the demon’s chest - but no matter how hard he tried, he found he couldn’t convince his finger to squeeze a second time. The man looked so _ human_, his too many eyes fixed on Martin like a startled deer, the street lights forming a broken, segmented halo of sorts above his head.

They stared at each other for an eternal moment - and then the demon scrambled to his feet, staggering on the injured leg, and Martin took the chance to swing the gun, the barrel crashing _ hard _ into the demon’s temple. Martin stood over the crumpled body, and cursed to himself.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

-

Jon’s head _ hurt _ , the kind of throbbing that made one think of small men repeatedly swinging hammers into one’s skull. He attempted to reach up to feel his temple, only to discover that his hands were bound tightly against his body. Gradually, he realized he was in a car, sprawled out horizontally across the backseat; the light blurring and fading and blurring and fading above him was the passage of the streetlights. He attempted to speak, but found his mouth was gagged, so he settled for letting out a muffled _ MMRPHRHRGH _and kicking a seat in front of him. He instantly let out a quieter, but just as muffled scream as his body registered that he had, in fact, used the leg with shrapnel embedded in it.

The figure at the wheel jumped, turning to face Jon. He recognized him as the man who had shot him in the goddamn leg; not unattractive, a heavyset guy with warm, light brown skin and some of Jon’s blood - at least, he figured it was his blood - still smeared across the hand tightly gripping the steering wheel. He peered at Jon through rounded glasses, his expression nervous. Or constipated. Jon had never been good at identifying emotions, even after the classes his elementary and middle school teachers had dragged him into a few days a week, having him sit and tell them whether the figures in the photos were smiling or grimacing, laughing or crying.

“Oh.” The man’s eyes flickered towards Jon’s face briefly, before fixing back on the road. “You’re awake. I was wondering how long that would keep you out. I hope you’re not concussed?”

Jon made a non-committal noise.

“Right, right.” The man sighed, and fell back into silence, the only sound the crunch of wheels on gravel. For about two seconds. “I’m, um, taking you back to the Institute. Elias will know what to do with you.” He looked somewhat nauseous when the name crossed his lips.

Jon’s brow furrowed. He didn’t recognize the name Elias - although he wondered if maybe he should - but the Institute, he figured, would be the Magnus Institute. Besides being the only proclaimed institute in the area, Jon recognized it from the secrets he had pried loose; a fair handful of the people he had fed from had apparently previously visited it, hoping to lift a weight from their chests. Why _ he _was going there, though, he didn’t know. He tried to ask, but the man at the wheel didn’t appear to understand the garbled questions. That, or he didn’t care. Either way, he did nothing but hum, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

Jon groaned, shutting his eyes and letting his head thump back onto the seat. This was going to be a very long drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the future, chapter lengths and povs are going to vary, depending entirely on what i deem is a good cutoff point and whose viewpoint has the most going on at that point in time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes a deal with the devil (or at least, the closest "human" contender).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lad hours!

Jon stood in an office that stank very strongly of weed, decorated with all sorts of odd trinkets and memorabilia. A desk sat towards the back, a chair on either side of it, and a tape recorder laid innocently in the middle. Surprisingly enough, they hadn’t run into anyone on their way inside - the Institute was barren at this time of night, its halls yawning and beckoning, everything appearing menacing in the lack of light. Martin stood close to him, his gun gripped loosely in his hand. He didn’t seem intent on using it, although his eyes flickered around the room nervously. He jumped as a voice echoed behind them, letting out a small squeak.

“Martin, welcome back. Who’s our guest?” The voice belonged to a greasy, grinning little freak.

Martin stiffened, his voice wavering slightly as he spoke. “The, uh, the demon. I thought he might be of some use? With everything that he knows, it might be... counterproductive? To kill him?”

Elias - as Jon assumed this smug creature was - nodded, his eyes fixed on Jon. “I see. Martin, you can go.”

“You’re- you’re gonna be alone? With the demon?” Martin asked, but he was already backing out of the room as he spoke, the door almost cutting off the last words as it clicked shut.

Elias watched him go for a moment before his gaze snapped back onto Jon. He stepped forward, removing the gag and casting it aside, before moving back and gripping the chair behind him. He sat in it backwards, a lazy grin stretching out his features. "Your employee is terrible at his job," Jon remarked drily. Elias gave a small, distracted nod, his eyes busily scanning Jon. Jon stood ramrod straight, refusing to show how much putting weight on his leg fucking _ hurt _. He idly flexed his fingers, digging his nails into his palms as a distraction - although he was ungagged, Elias hadn’t untied his hands.

“You’ve been terrorizing a lot of people, I hear,” Elias finally said, his tone curious but not necessarily condemning. 

“I-I was hungry,” Jon protested. “I wasn’t going to hurt anyone, I-”

Elias waved a dismissive hand, cutting him off. “Hurt, kill, maim, torture, I don’t give a damn. What’s important to me is that you present a unique opportunity.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped together, a feral gleam in his eye. “You have a lot of information, and you know how to extract what you don’t already have.” This wasn’t entirely true, but a cold, inky feeling spreading deep in Jon’s chest told him any misstep here would lead to his untimely demise, so he kept his mouth clamped firmly shut. “And you’re hungry. I can provide you meals, in exchange for your information. Of course, you’ll have to stay here, under close supervision. But considering it’s that or be shot dead on the spot, I think I know what you’re going to say.”

“I could kill you before-” Jon started to snarl.

“Then why haven’t you?” Elias asked. “But please, be my guest. I welcome you to try.” He spread his hands wide, a cold smile plastered on his pale, dead face and a challenge in his voice.

Jon was silent.

“That’s what I thought. Now, as a show of trust, I’ll feed you first. Follow me.” Elias stood as he spoke, producing a small knife from one of his pockets and slicing through the knot binding Jon’s hands together in one swift movement. Jon grimaced slightly, rubbing at his sore wrists. For a moment, he entertained the idea of lunging forward, wrapping his hands around Elias’s skinny, chicken-like neck and squeezing. But he had that same uneasy feeling that suggested doing that would seal his fate.

Elias brushed past Jon - not seeming to notice or care as Jon recoiled at the contact - and made his way through the door, leading him limping through a maze of hallways and eventually stopping in a small office. It was almost entirely empty save for the desk and chair set up in the center, and a few shelves stuffed with papers. The air was stale, choking Jon, and even Elias wrinkled his nose at it.

“Sit.” Elias gestured at the chair before producing a small stack of papers from the shelves and plopping them down in front of him. “Record this as you read, if you don’t mind,” Elias stated, placing a small tape recorder next to him. “We need it for sorting. Two birds, one stone, as they say. I’ll leave you to it.”

Jon waited until the door had clicked shut before he relaxed, idly straightening the papers and glancing around before finally forcing himself to click on the tape recorder. “Statement of Charles Lovett, regarding an abnormal storm. Statement taken May 28th, 2018. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims.” The words dragged themselves out of his throat with no regard for Jon’s own feelings.

_ “It is always raining. _

_ I don’t know how many days it’s been, now. Or maybe it’s been a matter of hours. Minutes, even. I don’t know. All I know is that the deep, mind-numbingly repetitive tap tap tap of the rain against every surface has drilled its way into my skull. It will never, ever leave me. Sometimes I can escape it, steal a few hours of sleep, but even in my dreams, it’s there, to the point I can no longer tell whether I’m awake. _

_ I don’t know what I did to deserve this. _

_ The power’s been out since the first time I woke up. My phone must not have charged very long before it went out, because it’s been dead the entire time. I can’t hear any of my neighbors, not even the man above me who has a revolving door of sexual partners or the couple below me whose young child cries incessantly through the night. I am completely alone in the world. _

_ There is only the rain. _

_ Sometimes I can hear the distant rumble of thunder, but in the end, the only constant is the tap tap tap of the rain. _

_ When I first woke up, I assumed it was before dawn, so I laid back down after doing my business and tried to focus on stealing a few more hours of sleep. The constant slap and patter of the rain made my heart race more than I like to admit, the fear closing like a vice around me, but eventually, I did manage to drift off. It was still dark when I woke up again. Okay, I thought, maybe I just didn’t sleep that long. _

_ After a few more repeats, I realized something wasn’t right. There was no way it could still be nighttime. I thought about knocking on Mrs. Hendrick’s door, asking if her power was out, too - surely it had to be, since every apartment in the building was hooked up to the same grid, you see - but decided against it. This was my off weekend at work, and damn it, I wasn’t leaving my apartment unless I absolutely had to. And so, with nothing else to do, I went back to sleep. _

_ I don’t know how many times now I’ve woken up to the goddamn rain pounding against the building. It’s there, it’s there, it’s there and it won’t leave me alone. No matter where I go in my home, the rain follows, sounding for all the world like it’s about to break through my ceiling. Even in the rooms without windows, I can hear it, and I swear to God it sounds louder, like it’s angry that I tried to slip away from it. I’ve started trying to count the seconds, minutes, hours, but I always lose track. The steady assault of the rain always breaks through. Always, always, always. It is always raining. _

_ I tried to leave, once. I stepped outside of my door, expecting to find myself in the dark, familiar hallway of my apartment building, but found myself in an almost pitch-black meadow. Ice-cold rain lashed against me and stung my skin, and I was soaked to the bone in seconds. I turned to go back inside, but there was nothing around me but mud and grass and the trees circling me bowing and creaking in the wind and the sound of the rain still tap tap tapping away. The wind hit me in gusts that threatened to knock me over, driving the rain hungrily towards my flesh, and I felt like it finally had what it wanted. _

_ It had me. _

_ I don’t know how long I stood there, in that half-drowned meadow, the never-ending rain pelting against me with a ferocity and malice that almost made it feel alive. Predatory. After a while, I forced my stiff legs awake and started walking. The only sound was the spattering of the rain and the squish of my bare feet through the mud. Despite the fact that the treeline couldn’t have been more than a minutes’ walk ahead of me, I swear I walked for hours and it never got any closer to me. I started running, sprinting until my legs ached and my lungs burned and I stumbled over my own feet and still the treeline seemed no closer. Shadows began to emerge, peeking around the corners of trunks and giggling to each other. I couldn’t hear their taunts over the sound of the rain, but I had the idea that they were talking to me. I don’t know what planted the idea, but I was convinced they must have put me here. They must have started the rain. _

_ I must have screamed myself hoarse, hurling pleas and then insults and eventually threats at them. At first, they showed no sign they had heard me, although I swear their shapes began to swell and bulge, as if they were feeding on my words. Eventually, though, they turned those ever-shifting faces towards me; they had no eyes or mouths or noses to speak of, but I got the distinct, crawling feeling they were looking at me. And that they hated me. _

_ They crossed the clearing in their lumbering sort of way, not quite walking but giving the impression of doing so. I realized out of nowhere that I had stopped walking. Had I even been walking in the first place? I couldn’t move, some combination of fear and awe as they drew nearer, one of them at last reaching out a not-quite hand. Its “fingers” dug into my jaw, cold and clammy and still the rain pelted the both of us, but it didn’t seem to feel the assault. It leaned in close, its voice the hiss of rain through a drainpipe. “Don’t try it again.” _

_ When I woke up, it was still raining. _

Statement ends."

Jon let the papers drift from his grip with a shudder, heard the tape recorder click off even though he didn’t remember touching it. His breath came in gasps, his chest heaving as he reveled in the mix of exhaustion and euphoria. His fingers gripped the edges of the desk tightly, and he felt almost as though he was falling, his body miles away from the uncomfortable wooden chair he sat in. He found it to string his thoughts together, like reaching through fog. This was… definitely a step up from hearing the traumas of random people he picked off from the street. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad - it would definitely be _ bad_, that was for sure, but he was tired of running the risk of getting arrested. At least this way, he had some privacy. 

Idly, he wondered what had happened to Mr. Lovett, but couldn’t find it in himself to care. Before he could ponder on it for too long, a loud, hollow knock disturbed him. The door swung open before Jon could even choke out a “come in”, revealing Elias. Jon was already growing sick of seeing this man. He scrubbed a hand over his face, a sigh tugging itself from his lips, before looking back up.

“I trust you’re satisfied?” Elias’s voice was almost a purr as he strode forward, the door shutting behind him. He leaned forward on the desk, his eyes locked on Jon’s. He didn’t wait for Jon to reply. “Now. Are you ready to follow through on your end of the bargain?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the statement in this is my own work! i wrote it a few months ago, attempting the tma style a bit but really just for horror practice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes some friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longer chapter than normal! :~]

As Jon staggered out of the room, he collided with someone else - papers in the other’s grip flurried around the hallway, and the stranger let out a good-natured chuckle as they both crouched down to collect the papers. “Sorry about that!” he remarked, his tone jovial. As Jon straightened and handed him the papers, his gaze slowly scanned upwards. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve-” his voice dropped away as he met Jon’s eyes, his expression somewhere between shock and repulsion. “_Seen _ you around before.” His hand started to drift towards his waistband, where he had made no particular effort to hide a pistol.

“I see you’ve met our newest member!” Elias crowed, flinging an arm around Jon’s neck as he appeared behind them. “Tim, this is, ah- Jonathan, was it?”

“Jon is fine,” Jon said curtly, shrinking away from the contact. “Don’t touch me.”

Surprisingly, Elias’s hand actually dropped away. “He’s our new informant, Martin’s own brilliant idea.” He winked. “_Play nice_.” Tim shot him a look Jon couldn’t read, but Elias ignored it. “Jon, go find Basira. I need you two on an extraction mission - go hunt down a Mr. Chandler Lindsey and find out what he knows.”

“What he knows about what?” 

“Better hop to it!” Elias called out, already striding down some other hallway. Jon shook his head, turning to ask Tim where Basira was - and _ who _Basira was - but the man was already gone. With a sigh, Jon chose a random direction and started walking.

-

Martin flopped down in one of the lounge chairs perhaps more dramatically than necessary, cradling a cup of tea close to his chest. He hadn’t realized before just how exhausted he was until now, when he finally had some downtime. He wondered how the demon was faring - if he was still alive, and not just a smear on the floor Elias would make Martin clean up later. And then fire him for not killing the demon himself.

Basira, already settled back in another chair and sipping from a mug of coffee, glanced up at him. “Rough mission?”

“You could say that, yeah.”

She winced in sympathy, and looked like she was about to say more, when Tim stormed in. He jabbed a finger viciously in Martin’s direction. “What the fuck are you and Elias playing at?”

Martin tried his absolute hardest to turn invisible, while Basira simply raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“For chrissake, hiring a fucking _ demon_-” he broke off as another man entered, with a sharp and none-too-quiet mutter of _ “speak of the devil” _.

Martin was… honestly surprised to see the demon still alive. He looked even more exhausted than before, his brow pinched in concern and his gaze far-off. He glanced around, his eyes landing on Martin before skimming off of him and towards Basira.

“You’re Basira.”

Basira had the expression of a cat sniffing a lemon. “I am.”

“Elias wants us to interrogate someone together. He told us to, ah, ‘hop to it’.”

“Of course he did.” Basira heaved herself up from the chair, setting her mug aside. Her hand rested on the gun at her hip.

-

“What happened to your leg?” Basira asked, nodding at Jon’s leg as she began walking.

“Martin.” Jon fell in step behind her.

Basira hummed in acknowledgement, glancing back at him. “Why didn’t he kill you? Why didn’t _ Elias _ kill you?” 

“Elias thinks my ability to compel will be useful.” Jon was still pondering the first question, himself - and the second, if he was being honest. Elias wasn’t the sort of person whose words he felt he could accept at face value.

“So that’s the plan? You make - who is it we’re interrogating?”

“Chandler Lindsey.”

“You make Chandler Lindsey talk, and I just… stand there and look menacing?”

Jon nodded. “Good cop, bad cop, I suppose.”

Basira was about to speak, but paused. “Which of us is the good cop?”

Jon faltered. “Bad cop, bad cop,” he amended.

Basira nodded, looking thoughtful. “Right, right. Chandler Lindsey… I know I’ve heard that name before.” She ducked into an office to the side, sliding into the chair at the desk and beginning to tap away at the computer. She covered the screen when Jon attempted to peer over her shoulder. “Demons don’t get to know the password.”

“I already know it.” Jon tapped his temple. He did not, in fact, know the password.

Basira swore under her breath.

Once the password prompt had been fulfilled, she uncovered the screen, clicking on a folder and beginning to scroll through the files. “Here we are. That’s what I thought - some guy Elias has been keeping tabs on. I didn’t think he’d actually amount to anything.” She let out a soft sigh. “I guess we’ll find out. There’s not much here, but at least it’s got his address.” She signed out of the computer as she spoke, already starting to walk again. Jon had to hurry to catch up. “So, how’s your compelling thing work?”

“What’s the name of the stuffed animal you sleep with?”

Basira spoke without hesitation. “Boogeyman. Boogey, for short.” Her brow furrowed. “How did you..?”

Jon gave her a dry smile. “It just sort of happens. Boogeyman?”

Basira shrugged, focusing her gaze ahead. “I thought if he was the scariest thing in the room nothing would want to hurt me.” She glanced at him. “Try not to do that around here, if you want to keep those eyes of yours intact. At least not to Tim. He’s already not happy about you being here.”

“I can’t really control it.” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “But I can try, I suppose.”

“You’ll have to do better than try.” Basira strode through the main doors without hesitation, heading towards one of the only cars in an otherwise almost empty parking lot. “Back seat,” she stated simply as she unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat. Jon followed, squinting and pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes. It was so bright out - he hadn’t realized the night had already come and gone.

The car was clean, for the most part - a few stray water bottles and an athletic jacket that didn’t appear to belong to Basira were the prominent features. Basira was setting up her phone in the GPS holder as Jon buckled in, punching in the address with a frown. “It’s a few hours away. Thanks, Elias,” she grumbled.

Despite the gun Basira had placed very pointedly next to her for easy access, Jon felt safer than he had at the Institute. Safe enough, with the combination of the lull of the car’s motion, that he felt his eyes drifting shut.

-

Jon groggily opened his eyes, rubbing at them. They were still in the car - Basira had twisted in her seat to face him, and now waved a hand in his face. “You snore,” was all she said.

“The head injury your friend gave me must have caused it.” Jon squinted against the bright light as he opened the car door. The sun had sunk lower in the sky, almost blinding. They were parked on the edge of a side road, surrounded by the forest on all sides.

“I don’t think it works like that.” The car chirped its alarm, and she stepped off of the road and started walking. “Come on, I think the cabin’s this way.” 

The trees closed over them, making it almost unbearably dark - it seemed almost to choke Jon, and he drew his scarf closer around him, fidgeting with the end of it in the hopes that the stimulation would put him at ease. Basira didn’t seem to enjoy it either, jumping at every noise and at one point drawing her gun on a squirrel.

“He really lives out here?” Jon asked as he stepped over a stray bramble, gritting his teeth as he tried to balance himself against a tree and instead wrapped his palm around a thorn embracing it.

“No. Well, yes and no. His actual residence is in Liverpool, but according to Elias, he started staying in a previously abandoned cabin out here a few weeks ago when he caught wind of our surveillance,” Basira explained.

“What makes you think he hasn’t caught wind of it again?” 

Basira shrugged. “I’m just following what’s in the file. Elias may be a slimy little devil, but he always seems to _ know_. He just only shares when it’s convenient for him.”

“He ‘knows’?” Jon asked. “‘Knows’, like..?” he gestured at himself. 

Basira was silent for a long time. “I don’t think so? I don’t know. But it’d be weird for a demon to do all this work hunting down other demons, and all their ilk.” She gave Jon a pointed look. “I’ve suspected it, of course, I think we all have, but we don’t have any proof. Do you not have… demon radar or something? No way to find other demons?”

“Do you know anything about demons?” Jon asked, his lips twisting into a scowl.

“I know demons are created when angels fall.” She gave him a long look. “And they have to commit some pretty ugly sins to do it.”

“It wasn’t that-” Jon ground his teeth together, yanking his scarf tighter around his neck. “I’m not going to talk about it. But God is crueler than you might think.”

Basira didn’t look like she believed him, but she dropped the subject. They walked in silence - save for the occasional grumbled complaints - until she pointed up ahead. “There’s the cabin.” Jon squinted, just barely managing to make out the shape of the derelict wooden hovel. It was small and squat, and certainly looked like it hadn’t been used for years. Basira raised her hand to knock, halting when Jon spoke.

“Why don’t you just kick it down?”

“Why on Earth would I do that?”

“Bad cop, bad cop.” Jon stated. After a beat, he added, “and this will be a lot easier if we have the element of surprise.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Basira sighed. “Stand back.” Once Jon had backed up a safe distance, she took a few steps back before kicking hard, her heel striking the weak point near the lock and sending the door crashing in. The cabin was dimly lit, but there was a figure standing at the far end, near a sink - he lunged for the kitchen table, where a rifle lay menacingly on the edge, but Basira was quicker on the draw.

“Don’t touch that. We’re just here for some answers,” she warned. She flicked her gun upwards slightly, and the man raised his hands skyward, his eyes locked on her. 

“I’m not telling you shit,” Chandler snarled. 

“You don’t have a choice.” The man’s eyes snapped towards Jon when he spoke. “Who are you working with?”

“I don’t know his name.” The words tore themselves from his throat, flowing blissfully towards Jon, although slightly choked - the man was clearly trying to keep them restrained. “He’s pale, got a ship captain-type look. Demon, I think. Got the eyes.” He gave Jon a pointed stare. “He pays me good, in exchange for names.”

“The names of _ who_?” Jon pressed.

“People who won’t be missed.”

Basira gave Chandler a hard look. “He owns a chain of motels in the area,” she explained to Jon without tearing her eyes away.

“You just… sacrifice these people to him?” Jon couldn’t help the horror creeping into his voice.

“Why are _ you _ surprised?” The man gave Jon a startled look. “Well, yeah, I do it. Money’s money, and I don’t give a shit about those people. No one does. That’s the point.”

“That’s awful-”

“That’s horrible-”

Basira and Jon spoke at the same time.

Jon inhaled deeply before continuing. “I see. And how do we contact this… ship captain?”

“Not a fucking clue. He just shows up with the money whenever he wants something.” 

Well, that wasn’t helpful. Jon glanced at Basira. “Anything else?”

“That about it covers it, I think. We should let Elias know. In the meantime…” Basira produced a pair of handcuffs. “Stand by the fridge.”

Chandler scowled. “Like hell I’m gonna just let you-” he began backing up when Basira brandished her gun. “Okay, okay! No need to get hasty,” he grumbled. He held still as Basira handcuffed him to the fridge door’s handle. “You’re- you’re just gonna leave me here?” A note of panic had entered his voice.

“You’re right next to the food. You’ll be fine.” She nodded to Jon. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

The man shouted after them as they left, but Basira ignored him, and Jon certainly wasn’t feeling sympathetic towards him. He hurried after Basira, casting a nervous glance behind them. “Will that really hold him?”

“Long enough for us to get out of here.” Basira responded curtly. “He had a point, though. Why do you care if people are being sacrificed? Don’t you sacrifice people?”

“I don’t- I don’t _ sacrifice _ them!” Jon snapped. “I just… look, I need to eat. I’m sorry they have to relive their trauma or whatever, but it’s not my _ fault_.” He hadn’t realized until now how loud his voice was getting.

“Shut up,” Basira said suddenly, glancing around with a panicked look. The moonlight washed the world in grey, seeming a lot brighter than it should have been for how many trees stood between it and them.

“I will _ not- _”

“For the love of- shut _ up_!” She hissed, gripping his coat sleeve and jerking him close. “We’re not alone.”

“What do you mean we’re not alone?” Jon hissed back.

“I _ mean_-” there was a rustle behind them, much louder than any creature they had seen so far should have been able to make, “-_run! _”

Basira was already sprinting away, and Jon’s heart was in his throat, hammering, hammering, hammering, and the fear was spreading through his chest and ensnaring him and his goddamn _ leg _was crumpling under his weight and he hit the ground hard, all too aware of the stinging of his palms and knees and the absolute burn of his leg and the pounding and throbbing and blurring of his head. He flipped over, attempting to crawl backwards, and caught sight of the creature - a massive lupine shape, moonlit grey fur rippling over corded muscle - as it lunged for him, its claws tearing into his chest with reckless abandon and its teeth closing around his throat-

-and stopping. His eyes had been squeezed shut, but he pried them open to see that the wolf’s gaze was locked on Basira, its bright eyes widening. Its breath came in harsh pants, the air an uncomfortable warmth against Jon's skin.

“Oh,” he breathed. “You know her.”

The weight lifted off of his chest, and just as quickly as it had come, the creature was retreating. Even when a gunshot rang out - the wolf letting out a howl of pain as the bullet lodged into its shoulder - it kept running, disappearing who the hell knew where.

Jon let out a groan as he sat up, his entire body screaming - Basira knelt down, letting him throw an arm over her neck, and together they straightened haphazardly and begin to make their way forward once more. “Are you alright?” Basira asked after they had been walking for a few minutes.

“Do I look like I’m alright?” Jon responded dryly.

“No. But you looked like shit to begin with.”

Jon gave her a long look, but his lips quirked into something that could have been called a hint of a grin. “I guess I did.” He sighed. “I’m… fine. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Basira gave him a look that even he knew translated to “you’re full of shit”, but she dropped the subject. “We’re almost to the car. Sit in the front, so I can make sure you don’t bleed out on the way back.”

Once they were in the car, Basira was mostly silent. Jon kept his eyes screwed shut and stayed hunched over, a feeble attempt to fight back the nausea. “So,” Basira finally said. “I really am curious. You don’t seem like a bad guy. How did you become a demon?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jon half-spat, half-gasped the words.

“I- look, I want to trust you. But I don’t even know your name. All I know is you’re a demon who feeds on… what? People’s misery?”

“Jon. And it’s not _ misery_, per se. It’s… what they know. What they shouldn’t know.”

“What they know. Right.” Basira said drily. “Well, look, that’s still _ really _vague, and-”

“Basira, keep asking, and I’m feeding on your knowledge next. With this line of work, I’m sure I’ll have plenty of entrées to choose from.” Jon didn’t have the energy to put much venom in his voice, but it was sufficient enough for her to send him a glare.

“You make it extremely difficult to like you, you know that? Fine. Be like that.” Basira returned her gaze to the road, but she gripped the wheel tightly, her knuckles paling. 

The rest of the drive was in silence.

Basira still offered her shoulder for Jon to drape his arm around when they finally exited the car, but in Jon’s opinion, she wasn’t taking much care to avoid painfully jostling him around as they walked. They had barely made it a few steps inside the Institute when Martin, hovering in the lobby, caught sight of them. “Basira! You guys are-” his voice dropped off as he caught sight of Jon. “What happened?”

Before either of them could respond, Martin was already taking Basira’s place under Jon’s arm. Jon couldn’t say he enjoyed being tossed around like a hot potato, but at least Martin was gentler than Basira. “Come on, let’s get you patched up.”

“I’ll tell Elias what happened.” Basira gave them a long look. “You shouldn’t have even been out on that leg of yours. I don’t know what he was thinking.” She was hurrying off before they could respond, and Martin led Jon towards another office. This one was more decorated than the others - a few plants decorated the desk, and a few poetry books were scattered around. A roll of yarn sat on the desk, a lump of a project that had just been started and was currently unidentifiable sitting next to it.

“Here, up on the desk.” With a combined effort, Jon was situated on top of the desk. “Okay, good. I’ll, uh, take care of your leg first, shall I?” Jon gave a stiff nod, and he continued, “great. Great. Alright, um, this is going to suck. No point dancing around it - not like you can do any dancing right now.” A laugh that sounded more like a cry for help tumbled from Martin’s lips. He produced a pair of scissors from the desk drawer, starting to cut away Jon’s pants above the knee to expose the injury. Said injury looked absolutely disgusting at this point. “Okay. I’ll sterilize it first, and… it doesn’t look like the bullet went all the way through, so I’ll have to dig it out.”

Jon nodded, taking a deep breath that immediately turned to a half-contained cry as an alcohol-soaked rag was gently touched to the wound.

“Sorry, sorry!” Martin said hurriedly.

“Don’t you have any- any anesthesia, or anything?” Jon tried hopefully.

“I’m not a _ doctor! _I just have this for if, like- like if someone cuts themselves on a nail or something!” Martin continued dabbing at the injury gently as he spoke, punctuated by Jon’s hisses of pain.

“You’re all constantly fighting things. You don’t have a real doctor?”

“They’re _ powerful_. If you’re injured enough you need medical attention this serious, you’re probably already dead.”

Jon grumbled an indistinct complaint, and they fell into silence as Martin finished the sterilization. “Okay. Now for the. Bullet, I guess.” Martin’s hands wobbled as he produced the tweezers. He squeezed his eyes shut, mumbled something under his breath, and his hand steadied slightly.

Jon bit his lip to keep from screaming as the tweezers started to dig into his flesh, and the taste of copper greeted him. “Um, right. Here.” Martin offered him his spare hand.

Jon stared at it.

“If- s-sometimes squeezing helps,” Martin explained.

“I- fine, alright.” Jon took the offered hand, and Martin returned to work.

“Ow! Ow, okay, you’re using your nails, that’s fine,” Martin’s voice was pained as he worked. “Okay. Okay.” He lifted the tweezers up, light glinting off of the small metal object clutched in their grip. “There. That, uh, wasn’t so bad. You can let go of my hand now.”

Jon dropped his hand like it had burned him. “Thanks.” He adamantly refused to look at Martin.

“No problem. Ready for me to do your chest?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Martin’s gaze had landed on his bloodied and torn shirt. 

“I don’t really have a choice,” Jon grumbled, already lifting his shirt over his head as he spoke and casting it aside on the floor. 

Martin let out a soft chuckle, and started to sterilize the wounds, this time seeming a little more sure of himself. The silence stretched for minutes, until he finally said, “I’m Martin.”

“I know.”

Martin sighed. “I know you _ know_, but I thought maybe we could have a start like normal people. Since we’re working together.” He shook his head. “Forget it, it was stupid.”

“It was.” Jon hesitated. “I’m Jon. Nice to meet you, Martin.”

The way Martin’s eyes lit up, the smile gracing his lips, you’d have thought Jon had made his day. “Nice to meet you too, Jon.” 

Why did Jon feel so warm? Where the cold, inky fear normally spilled through his chest, he felt something much warmer, honey-like spreading through him, like how the sun’s glow gradually heated everything it touched.

“Alright, I’m starting on the stitches. I’ll do the best I can, but be sure not to pull them loose, unless you want to end up back here,” Martin warned. They fell back into silence, until Martin asked, “so, uh. What happened with Elias?”

“He offered me a job.”

“I figured as much. I meant, like…” Martin gestured with his free hand. “The nitty-gritty, you know?”

“He said he would provide me food as long as I could provide him information. He gave me some, I gave him some.” 

Martin nodded, and Jon was entranced with his expression - he seemed almost as though he was drinking in every detail. Not in the hungering, never-satisfied way he himself did, but in a way that made Jon feel as though he was being _ understood_. “I see. Can I ask what you told him, or is that too personal?”

Jon faltered. “He… wanted to know some personal details. I instead told him about another demon - a very unpleasant entity named Michael. I had an encounter with it before I- a long time ago,” he corrected himself. “And he accepted that trade.” He wasn’t quite sure what compelled him to say the next part. “I don’t think that will work next time, though. He’ll want more. They always want more.”

Martin nodded as Jon spoke. “I wish I could be more reassuring, but yeah, that’s how Elias is. Alright, here.” He snipped off the end of the last stitch. “I’ll find you a new shirt.”

“What’s wrong with my old one?” Jon protested.

“Besides the fact that it’s bloody and torn to shreds?”

“It’s comfortable!”

Martin ignored him and ducked out of the room, returning shortly after with a large, faded black t-shirt. “This is the only one I could find.” 

Jon took it and studied the design with clear disgust. “You’re joking.”

“It’s the only one I could find. Spooky, isn’t it?”

“I had a different word in mind,” Jon grumbled as he pulled the “my eyes are up here” shirt on.


End file.
